


Wash Away, Beauty

by WrittenTales



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, M/M, Mentions of Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9766109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenTales/pseuds/WrittenTales
Summary: Aramis comes to realize the hard way that beauty isn't everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> (Sorry, this may be very jumpy)

“Beauty provokes harassment, the law says, but it looks through men's eyes when deciding what provokes it.” ―  **Naomi Wolf**

\----

Sex was a pleasure, a game at times yes, but an experience that should be sensual and modest in all its attributions. Aramis never imagined sex to be forceful, cruel, completely emotionless, done without heart and endless warmth from every touch. Love was like the sun, cautious before you’ll get burnt by the rays, too hard to see before your eyes are engulfed by darkness, and impossible to hold on when it turns from you. But Aramis has only let himself remember the goodness of love; never the jealousy of harbingers that intended to ruin his happiness. He’d cut ties and abandoned ship before the waves grew rough, never having been the best at comforting the people who depended on him most.

To him, love was not supposed to be troubling. He didn't like pondering on about the things that could possibly make his life miserable. It was a selfish notion yes, but it didn’t matter in the slightest. His trivialities were about as meaningless as the next man’s. So uselessness could never be welcomed in Aramis’ head nor his bed if there were no beneficiaries.

If what the monks said were accurate, perhaps it was truth that Aramis took God’s gifts for granted.

As a child, all Aramis was exposed to was sex, in all its forms. The brothels never lacked men, but it ran short of women plenty during his sentence. Mother would never allow the hands of cruel masters to touch his young, unblemished flesh. She wanted to keep him untainted. Uninfluenced.

Aramis had seen boys just like him. Stuck in a room for most of their forsaken lives, chained by a rusty piece of metal attached to their wrists. The bastille may have been a better fate, perhaps paradise, compared to the filthy lives of the “golden boys”.

Aramis’ mother reminded him often that their fate should not be considered a nightmare far away for him. The only reason his mother’s keeper let her hold on to her child was because she was one of the most attractive maiden’s in his house. Pretty whores usually made pretty children. Aramis could have been one of the children who get their throats slit immediately after their birth and thrown in the river for no evidence towards their master for man-slaughter.

The day Master tried to whore Aramis, at the ripe age of seven, he had already lost his virtue too late for intervention, to his mother’s keeper. After that horrible night, Mother had already made arrangements for Aramis to be snuck out of the brothel and to his father’s small estate. 

To say it lightly, love was cruel to him that day. Especially when his mother, a beauty to those with the clearest of vision, never looked back. So he hopelessly tried to forget that chapter of his life, in order to move on.

He didn’t stay with his father long, before he was shipped to a monastery, along in a carriage with the stinking goats who were going to be slaughtered and prepared for the soup kitchens.

Aramis was adventurous, stubborn, and careless. Which the monks reminded him of daily. Especially when he broke the golden rule of priesthood, abstinence. He had laid with a girl from the village, and this was where Aramis found hope in love once again. Isabelle was worth the whippings, the shame, and the ex-spell. Until one of Aramis’ most feared disciplinarians came up to him to say:  “Your beauty is becoming, Aramis. But you will come to learn eventually that you can only wield it one of two ways. To your advantage or to your demise.”

Whatever that had meant, he hadn’t thought about it all these years up until now. 

Aramis sat in his small pool of blood for the longest time, in disbelieve. But panic quickly eluded this.

He had just been raped. Left to die. Left to curl up in his assailant’s own mess. Forgotten, like trash left by Parisians in the streets, who could have acknowledged the Musketeer if they would only turn the corner. But Aramis stayed silent, muffled in his pain and shame, wondering why and how God could have allowed such a tragedy to overtake him without warning.

It was unjust, he had no other reasonable answer to his punishment. It shouldn’t have happened, he shouldn’t have turned the corner out of curiosity. His attacker shoved him against the wall, unarmed him of all his artillery, whispered a few untruths in ear while he pushed his neck and face closer and closer to the stone of the building in front of him. Suddenly his pants were unbuttoned, and he was gagged, with the blue cloth that wrapped around his stomach, and his attacker didn’t relent after that. Only stopping when Aramis felt a warmth inside him stat to fill, the man behind him grunting in his climax, uncaring if Aramis had reached his peak.

Till he had thrown him down on the gravel, did Aramis see the man dressed in the uniform of a red-guard. His shame started to stifle, as he realized that he had been overcome by not just anyone, but the Richelieu’s captain, Dante, who staggered as if he were drunk.

Nothing felt worse than when he proceeded to kick and spit at him, calling him foul labels and expected a fight when there was none left in Aramis’ soul. So he let his attacker have his fun with him again, until it was morning.

Morning took so long to appear, only bringing with it light that showed Aramis the sight of cum and blood that blended like oil and water on his skin and ultimately hardened.

So he mustered the last of his strength to lift himself up, return everything to how it was before it was disturbed, and falsely hold his head up high to raise no questions. But to only the keenest of eyes, his attacker had stolen the light from Aramis’ eyes. He had extinguished his warm sun which turned solid black from the coldness of rape and foul desires.

And his words haunt him till the walk home: _**"You're just another pretty face."**_

\--------

He could never look at Porthos the same again. Never can his touch be unflinching, never could his eyes not repeat his anguish, never could he let Porthos touch him without feeling sick to his stomach. He wanted to tell the poor giant what happened, he was obligated to know the truth. But every time his gaze fell to him, he was reminded of the extent of the devil’s hand.

No longer did Aramis think he was worthy or good enough to please Porthos how he deserved to be treated. All he saw in the mirror now was the hollow of a man he once was. He hated it, despised that everyone could live their lives whilst he lacked the courage to step outside.

Dante took his freedom, raped his life from him by forced.

\-----------

Porthos couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he had done wrong. What could have made the Spaniard pack his clothes in a rage in the middle of night? Not shouting but flinching every time Porthos reached out to stop him, boldly telling him to step aside to continue with this sudden madness?

All he did was kiss the back of Aramis’ neck, his favorite spot, before Aramis jumped up and started to pack his life away. Nothing Porthos could say would sooth his motions or stop him from leaving. His pleas were ignored, his frantic hands were pushed away and his other motives were yelled at. So Porthos took a sit at the edge of the mattress, Aramis’ side turning colder by the second.

This was the first sign of many.

Then the door slammed into the quiet night, halting silence for a minute before noise continued from Aramis’ footsteps walking towards oblivion.

\--------------

“So you aren’t gonna talk to me?” Porthos mutters to Aramis on routine guard duty near the palace. Never before was Aramis this close to someone but yet so distant at the same time. “You don’t think ya owe me an explanation?” Porthos continues.

Aramis thinks of the ball that is currently ongoing in the palace, the laughter and music is almost contagious, but it doesn’t get a rise out of him like it used to. Guard duty never used to be dull with Porthos, but the bright side of it is, at least Aramis could actually see the stars for the first time. And they were nice, yet they seemed to be light years away from where he stood on Earth.

“The night is beautiful, isn’t it?” The night brought darkness, and with darkness the unknown. Aramis didn’t like the unknown, because the unknown meant dark alleys, and a wicked devil stole his love of the unknown from his open hands in a dark alley. So ultimately, Aramis grew sick of the dark. “I could almost agree to trade places with the moon, and be amongst the stars.”

“Or I could lasso the night and bring you the sky.” Porthos mutters, turning away from Aramis when he completely disregards his questions. “If that’ll make ya happy.”

Aramis’ frown hides under the shadow of his hat. The thing he hated more in their world than dishonor, was making Porthos suffer when it wasn’t his burden to carry.

The rest of the night is filled with uncomfortable silence and crickets chirping in the grass.

\---------------

In this room alone, Aramis finds no comfort, not even in sleep.

His dreams are plagued with false connotations and hands that find no rest. Not only did Dante take him once, he had taken his will from him four times. Each time felt worse than the last.

He had tried to wash the evidence, the blood, the remainder of him, but every time Aramis takes off his clothes, he sees the prove as visible as day. The dirt does not cover the bruises, and he contemplates bathing in his clothes, so he wouldn’t have to witness the horrible truth, or not to shower at all.

He feels alone, like no one can understand him right now. He ignores the knocks at night, he ignores Porthos, he ignores every remainder that made him happy, so he could focus on his recovery. He patches the broken skin, runs his finger over his fractured ribs, ties a piece of cloth and wood as a splint to his ankle to help him walk with his flat boots.

He puts on his stomped hat, popping it outwards and trying to fix the feather, before he considers himself ready to face the world. The mirror beside the door is cracked, like his body. He’s disgusted with what scum looks back at him, tainted.

Like the “golden boys” back at the brothel.

The mirror is already cracked, but Aramis punches through the split image, feeling the shards tear the skin off his hand. And that takes care of that.

\--------

Athos had a knack at finding the truth when it usually tried to evade him. But Aramis was no pro to the art of hiding his troubles behind the wall like Athos; who has built up his crumbling wall for almost half a decade by now.

He notices the little shakes of fear when someone touches Aramis’ shoulder from behind, the beads of sweat forming when he sees the red guards marching through the streets, and he could see by Aramis’ slow, progression into untidiness that he’s letting himself go.

Aramis no longer has pride in his step, no longer does he subtlety seduce random ladies in the streets, which would have been a comfort to Athos if it not were for his concern towards his friend. Aramis’ unfortunate attributes made him Aramis, and Athos could never have conjured up the day when all his little antics would have disappeared and Aramis would finally act like a proper Musketeer on duty.

Needless to say, Athos didn’t like this in the slightest.

“Is something the matter, Aramis?” Athos asks, when both musketeers are sitting at the table, Athos eating his soup with his proper hand and small piece of tack, whilst Aramis stared at his bowl in distant thought.

“Madame Lorraine turned me from her door, is all.”

Athos raises an eyebrow, “I thought she moved to England a year ago with her husband.”

Aramis suddenly looks sheepish, as Athos caught him dead in his lie. “Madame Lorraine…oh yes, I meant Francesca.”

“I didn’t know you were into necrophilia.”

Aramis sighs, knowing full well he won’t be able to sneak himself out of this one. “If something is bothering you, would it trouble you more to share?” Athos could give Aramis his privacy, if asked to be let alone. Any man deserved to have his thoughts to himself when he needed self-counsel.

“It’s nothing that I cannot handle.” Aramis smiles, yet it didn’t reach his eyes. Un-genuine and fake, like plaster on a wall.

“What is that mark on your neck?” Athos questions, pointing towards the purple looking blemish on his shoulder that was creeping towards the visibility on his neck.

“It was Porthos.” Aramis says rather quickly. Trying to occupy his mouth with Serge’s soup, almost grimacing at the taste. “He contains such an animosity sometimes.”

“Porthos would never…” Athos mumbles, staring at the mark that Aramis was trying to cover up, till he notices the little tears in his jacket and a fresh looking bloodstain on the sleeve. “Did someone attack you?”

“No.” Aramis chuckles, as if that thought was absurd to throw Athos off, but it only geared him towards the truth.

“You know, someone on the street complained to Treville that she saw a red guard running with his pants down. Said he was running as if he had the devil on his tail. Can you believe it? Dante, the old captain, they’re saying.” The rumors were not false, word was all on the street that Dante had raped some poor sap a few nights ago, the towns’ folk seeing the blood and the pendent to his cape next to it. Athos only repeated it out of curiosity, not expecting the fear in Aramis eyes as he looked up at Athos. Confirming all that he needed to know.

“There is no reason to lie to your friends, but I understand. Your secret is safe with me. But if you want your justice, you must come forward.”

Aramis glared, “No one will believe it possible for a man to rape another man. They’ll declare us both heathens and I’ll just burn with him as if it were consensual sex between us and I pleaded to save my own life.”

“Like any victim, you’re innocent. Treville and the rest of us will never let you burn, or at least, never alone. Fear of judgement is the only thing stopping you, not the pyre.”

\---------------

Aramis doesn’t feel uneasy that Athos knows, it actually gives him a small relief that he doesn’t have to hole it all up inside. But he feels as if he’s betrayed Porthos, the longest and most intimate lover he’s ever kept in his bed. He should have told him, the day after it had all happened. But he was colliding, colliding with reality too much, too quickly. He couldn’t have the world know, not yet.

But Aramis finds himself alone with Porthos, in the stables, when he creeps forward and gives Aramis a tentative kiss on the lips. So soothing, so inviting that Aramis realized he’s been missing this, yet it’s only been a week, it feels like a lifetime.

Porthos wraps his arms around Aramis’ waist, hoisting him up against the wall so the smaller man was head level to him. They kissed, their lips smacking in harmony as Aramis gently entangles his fingers in Porthos’ curly fro, groaning in need as his cock hadn’t been touched in so long.

Porthos’ strength would have been a comfort, if it wasn't for the fact when he was kissing down Aramis’ exposed chest, transferring more heat to his already burning skin; he was beginning to feel too hot, Porthos' grip seeming to be too tight and claustrophobic. Porthos took Aramis’ heavy breath as encouragement, not seeing the glossy eyes Aramis carried, whimpering when he one-handedly opens the button to his trousers and sticks his hand down behind his breeches.

Slowly does Porthos unbutton the front of Aramis’ coat, Aramis’ hands moving from his hair to Porthos’ shoulders in dazed motion. He was caught in the memory of Dante’s hot, revolting breath, his hands poking where they didn’t belong and his tentative words in his ear, calling him his little prince. Telling him the lies that would haunt him, that have now stained Porthos’ hands when it was not he who had committed the crime. Yet Aramis just cannot distinguish Porthos from Dante, both men are so similar but not at the same time.

Porthos goes up to kiss him, but Aramis bites his lip in retaliation. When Porthos drops him, Aramis tries to run, tasting Dante’s metallic blood and cum in his mouth. When Porthos grabs his arm and coat, pulling him back, Aramis can feel Dante clawing at him, refusing to let Aramis move, feeling his hands over his mouth when he wants to scream for anyone to help or some catharsis for the anguished fear. His belly curls, and it’s as if he’s about to choke on his own bile as his body betrays him, freezing up and letting Porthos pull him closer, wrapping his arms around Aramis’ front in order to calm him.

Aramis crumbles onto Dante, accepting defeat like he had in the alley, thinking he’ll never be able to escape this. He’ll always have a part of him, and when he feels the need to use him again, he’ll be able to find him. He can’t escape. Never.

He doesn’t want to feel the pain. He wants Dante to go slow this time, to not bruise him like he did last time. Branding him.

“Aramis calm down! Please.” Porthos tries to plea, but Aramis is a shell, stuck looking into Porthos’ brown eyes. He feels as if his soul has left his body, staring at the scene. Porthos in agony because of his own helplessness is not a pretty sight. “Snap out of it!” His strong warrior was holding him tight, yet not tight enough.

Aramis feels close to death, peaceful.  He lets himself elope into the darkness.

\-------------

Waking up, Aramis can sense that he was in a different room, the air smelling like stale wine and old sheets instead of horses. The ceiling had spots of black until Aramis blinked them away.

“Athos, Porthos, he’s up!” D’Artagnan’s voice calls, the two musketeers letting themselves in through the door.

“Finally, it’s been two days!” Porthos exasperates, Athos nudges him with his elbow.

Aramis stares at the scene, half-heartedly, his eyes drifting from one of his comrades to the next. Aramis can feel it, it was inevitable. “Does he know?” Aramis croaks, his charming voice turned raspy from being in disuse. His eyes were directly on Porthos, bracing himself, yet he seemed too sick to speak up for Athos.

“I had to tell him, he deserved to know. And so did d’Artagnan, he was the one who fetched the physician.”

“And what did _he_ say?”

“That you show clear signs of one that has been raped—“

“Don’t say that…word.” Aramis says behind clenched teeth, his fists opening and closing on top of the blanket.

“Why didn’t ya say anythin’?” Porthos asks, going on his knees to kneel beside Aramis, trying to keep himself out of Aramis' space.

“I was ashamed. I let him _win_.” Aramis murmured, trying to hide his redness from Porthos with his hand, but he slowly pushes it down back to his side.

“There’s nothin’ to be ashamed about when it wasn’t your fault.” Porthos reassures. “Ya didn’t ask for it and he caught ya on your off day, don’t go demeanin' yourself to make it seem like you’re the bad guy ‘ere.”

“Why did God choose me?” Aramis asks, his throat tightening, as if he was asking the right person to give the right answer.

Both d’Artagnan and Athos look towards each other, feeling even worse for their friend who lies frail in bed. The physician had re-wrapped Aramis’ self-medicated wounds and had supplied the others with certain roots for the pain Aramis must be feeling. Aramis’ self-induced coma had panicked everyone, especially when the doctor tried to declare him dead when he was so obviously still breathing.

Porthos stayed by his side the whole two days, accepting the breaks d’Artagnan or Athos would either relieve him of so he could bathe and have some fresh air. He refused to eat if Aramis wasn’t eating, refused comfort if Aramis wasn’t comfortable.

When Athos had finally told Porthos, who was worrying himself to oblivion, he could only restrained himself for the most part, before marching outside the garrison, not coming back until a few hours later, but he had seemed more cool-headed than before. Athos only hoped that Porthos didn’t create more trouble than they were all ready for at the moment.

He’s main concern was that Dante would receive prison as his sentence, a life of lackluster luxury in jail was too good for that rat. Porthos wanted to kill him, but it would only cause stupendous alarm if it were Musketeer killing a Red Guard captain when a Red Guard captain had coerced a Musketeer. The Musketeers were safe with their plea of innocence for now.

“Because you’re the strongest one he knows who could go through what you did and live to honor your duty. You saved some poor wanderin’ lady from that animal. It doesn’t disregard who you are, but tells those bastards what you can be. Ya’ve honored France and all its citizens that night, and no one even knew that ya was fightin’ for _them_.”

\---------

Dante’s trial was quick, thanks to the efforts of Treville, who was merciless with the Cardinal and King who claimed that the Cardinal’s man had conducted a terrible, planned attack on one of his own. The Queen was the one to eventually persuade the King to have a trial, declaring that rape in any form and to anyone, was abominable.

It was difficult, for Aramis to step to the front of the courtroom to state his case, but Porthos refused to let him do it alone, and neither did the others. The three of them stood around Aramis like an arrow head, giving Aramis strength to speak. He refused to acknowledge the crowd, only focusing on what transpired that night, which he had tried to forget in what seems like a lifetime ago.

He refused to see Dante, who spat at him from the side, knowing his fate was already set in stone. It took every ounce of Porthos not to impale him on the spot. But Aramis could see the black eye, bloody dried lip, and bruises swelling his hideous features.

“What about this roach! He had attacked me in the streets!” Dante exclaimed, pointing at Porthos, and his chains clanked against each other.

The judge turned to him, his stone, bleak eyes uncaring. “Oh, did you rape you too monsieur? Perhaps this whole trial can be rearranged if that was so. But I don’t condemn any violence towards criminals as long as it is not practiced in the holy place of my judgement halls.”

Aramis glanced toward Porthos, who shrugged. “I would have killed him, if it wasn’t for Treville.”

After the show of evidence, which was to show the judge Aramis’ physical marks from the struggle, did the judge finally give his decree.

“On the behalf of France, I free us from this coward who knows no boundaries and who breaks the code of chivalry whilst wearing the attire of the Red Guard to hide from his actions underneath the protection of the King. I sentence him to be castrated, then quartered in the square. If this does not kill him, then I want him thrown in a pot of boiling oil.”

Porthos smiles to himself yet Aramis cannot explain the feeling that ruptures in his heart.

\----------

Dante’s death was cruel and slow, satisfying for the masses, but foreign to Aramis. Aramis feels no justice, just strange as he sits upon Porthos’ bed, running his hand up and down the cool sheet.

“Do you feel like justice was served?” Porthos asks, handing Aramis a cup of wine as he sits beside him.

“They massacred him.” Aramis said, his speech was tinged with something that sounded much like sympathy.

“Ya want to…grieve for him?” Porthos’ tone was accusatory.

“No. Not at all. It’s just…I did not see God in this—“ Porthos sucks his teeth before rolling his eyes and drinking from his cup. “Hear me out. I did not see justice, all I saw was a crowd who wanted to see a man suffer, not for his actions, not for me, but for their own sadistic pleasure.” Aramis tries to reason.

“Well People like a show. But are ya goin’ to let that be a reason why ya can’t be happy? He’s not out there, addin’ to the long list of victims. Not many people get to have what you got today.”

“I know that Porthos, and I’m not saying that I’m not happy, but that I am at peace with what happened. He took the images of love that I cherished and manipulated it every time he took me, whispering and telling me that he wished he had me so helpless forever and that no one will ever make me feel like the way he did. He told me, my face was the only reason he forced me in that alley and why I am a Musketeer. He demeaned me, the only thing I pride left in, he objectified it and made me worthless. Worthless to myself alone.”

**_To your advantage or to your demise._ **

“I let him destroy me. And he died a satisfied man knowing that, his death doesn't justify what I feel, nor does it wash it away.”

\---------

It took Aramis a few months to walk around the Garrison without fear of his comrades. He felt like he had to prove himself to them, getting off his sickbed much earlier than his physician had warned and he had been training till day in and day out. He made sure to grab every opportunity to a mission as possible, with the others or without, Aramis knew he had to do this for himself. He had to gather his broken shards and sculpt a new and better man in his place.

No longer was he the careless suitor, but a veteran to survival.

The others backed off, for good reason, knowing Aramis had to find some way to overcome with more than just his looks. He started using his beauty for meaningful advantages, rather than feasting on pleasure for his own sake. He fought more for a reason, than with without.

Treville was proud of him, Athos encouraged him, d’Artagnan trained with him, and Porthos…he was impressed. And that was all that mattered to him, more than anything the world had to offer. His smile was what kept him pushing on.

For once in his life, Aramis knew himself, the real him he buried with monkhood and his mother.

Not the rebellious, romantic but a loyal patriot of the King’s personal right army division.

It also took a while for Aramis to get this moment, to knock on Porthos’ door, the familiar notches and peeling wood is engraved in his memories. His heart flutters when Porthos opens the door, looking as if he just came from the bathhouse. Aramis made sure to tidy up whilst still dressing casual, deciding to put aside his armor for tonight.

“For a second there, I thought ya almost forgot about me.” Porthos’ dimpled cheeks makes Aramis stir in place with anticipation.

“I brought wine.” Aramis tries, holding up the green bottle for him to see.

“I hope it ain’t cheap.”

“Perhaps, yet I insist that I am much more expensive and willing to please.” Aramis says seductively.

As the wine is poured and drowned, Aramis cannot hold back any longer, as he gets up from his chair to straddle Porthos on his lap. “Before we do anythin’, are ya okay with this?’ Porthos asks out of concern, remembering the last time they tried to have sex, Aramis collapsed.

“Full and free reign, do whatever you will with me.” He whispers on Porthos’ lips. He engulfs the bottom lip with his teeth, inching it forward, deciding to thrust his hips against Porthos’ concealed weapon.

It doesn’t take Porthos long to get in sync with Aramis’ thrusts, while moving his rough, powder stained hands up to Aramis’ hips, pulling him tight against his cock. Aramis’ hands move from Porthos’ cheeks to his hair, Porthos’ most sensitive spot, and he pulls while he kisses him, the warmth beneath them only growing hotter. Soon enough, Porthos can feel his thighs starting to sweat from heat and he has no other choice but to grab Aramis’ persistent hips and hoist his legs around him, so he push him up against the wall with a slam.

Porthos’ wall was shared with another musketeer, yet neither cared if he heard the sounds from their room beyond. They were reconnecting, the searing breath they shared was almost suffocating, but yet so pleasurable as Aramis feels his cock start to harden against Porthos. The absence of such feeling makes him feel renewed, like he’s a virgin, learning how to properly fuck a man, and acquiring the true definition of love-making. The poets who wrote about this moment, couldn’t have been so abstract. This feeling, this feeling is what he craved and didn’t.

To feel so out of control that he wanted to become violent with passion. He wanted Porthos to defy gravity, to throw him against the sheets and fuck him till they met heaven at its door. His heart swelled and he thought it could have burst with every touch.

Porthos takes his time, slowly untying the knots that secured his shirt, pulling the fabric over his head. He was learning to love again, with each sensual touch after another.

Porthos kissed his neck, before sucking in the skin, sucking until he was sure it would turn purple, marking him. Aramis opens his eyes to look at the slow fire flickering in the lantern at the table. The fire soothes him, each time it dances gives him goosebumps as Porthos finds a new place to mark with his lips. His hand still stayed in his hair, clutching the curls for life.

Porthos’ thumb strokes a nipple, sending electric shocks up his spine, making his toes curl against Porthos’ thigh. His unrelenting and forgiving strength is what keeping him afloat on this sinking ship.

“I can’t express how much I love you. God, I’ve been so selfish.” Aramis pants in his ear. Aramis lets himself fall back when Porthos looks up at him, his lips looking swollen from Aramis’ sucking on them like sugar. He reaches a tentative hand to unbutton Porthos, revealing the scars from old and new, running his hand over the zig zags. “I can’t believe I almost let you go.”

“But I’ll still hold on, always.” Porthos declares, putting his forehead against Aramis’.

He looks gorgeous in the firelight, he’s shining like the sun, Aramis’ own sun. Porthos orbits around his heart like a wheel and he doesn’t even know the power he could wield to his heart. “Don’t let some monster wash away this.” Aramis moans aloud to the powerful clothed thrust that Porthos gives, he can only imagine how it would’ve felt like if he were inside of him. “Don’t let some monster make you forget I’m still here.”

Aramis doesn’t want to seem like a child to this confession, so he closes his eyes. To will away the tears. But Porthos mistakes it as a fault that he’s created. “I will take my sword to whatever demon that plagues you. I’ll cherish you like the finest gold in all of France. No King or God could offer me somethin’ that will turn me from your side. I fight for you before any decree, I’ll love you before anyone else. Open your eyes and look at me, I speak the truth.” Porthos’ words are for his ears only.

Of course, no one on the outside will be able to look at the inside of this wholly mammoth, who is labeled unkindly. No one will be able to see what Aramis sees in Porthos’ alcove, their shared heat revealing a side that is only ushered at the most intimate of moments.

“I don’t doubt any of it.” Aramis smiles, kissing his lips on last time, before he whispers to Porthos to love him. That he wants it slow tonight. And Porthos is more than happy to oblige.

When Aramis strips the last of Porthos’ clothing, they are both naked on the bed, Porthos staring at Aramis whilst he laid in-between his legs. They were holding each other. Waiting, waiting for something.

“Wash his memory away from me Porthos. I don’t want to feel him when you touch me, I don’t want to think about him when we’re like this. Make me _forget_.”

Porthos pecks Aramis again, stroking the sides of his face like fragile porcelain. Those rough fingers are capable of being gentle, as he held Aramis quite similar to how a father would hold a newborn babe.

Aramis placed his hand over Porthos’, entwining their fingers next to his head. Porthos had placed a pillow underneath Aramis’ waist to gain a better angle, knowing his fingers would bruise his tan flesh if he squeezed them absent-mindly.

Porthos had his play with Aramis’ hole, before grabbing hold of his leaking member, rolling the head around the skin. “He who shall not be named doesn’t know that ya like to be teased before you fuck.” He begins, putting the head of cock inside before quickly pulling out, making Aramis gasp loudly. Only to have a taste of paradise, Aramis craved for more, quickly. But he didn’t want this moment to be over so soon.

“He who shall not be named doesn’t know that your nipples look bright red after they’ve been played with.” Porthos goes to engulf one, thrusting in the head of his cock whilst he flicks at the nub, before taking a bite and rolling his tongue over the small ball of nerves. When he lets go to blow on that nub, Aramis can’t control the shake of his hands as the saliva along his nipple grows cold to Porthos’ breath.

“He who shall not be named will never know how it is to have ya sprawled on his bed, so open, invitin' him in.” Porthos growls, Aramis running his hands over Porthos’ back to his buttocks, grunting when Porthos gives him his first, real thrust. Like a present he’s been waiting to open.

When Porthos begins to hit his sweet spot, Aramis has to will himself to not remember, clutching Porthos for strength, his eyes clenched shut in overwhelming pain. Porthos starts to slow, when he catches Aramis’ facial expression before Aramis lets out a demand, “Don’t stop…don’t ever stop.” He pants.

“Are you hurt?” Porthos asks, his member softening just a bit inside of him.

“I…I just need a new position. I feel too vulnerable.” Aramis admits.  Porthos lets Aramis man-handle him, letting him push him in Aramis’ previous position. Right now, Aramis is crouched above Porthos, who is now in full view of his cock inside his man. Porthos’ necklace now lays against his chest, a necklace of a Greek coin. Medusa staring Aramis straight in the face.

Aramis’ abs have been forming, the dips of his pectorals are starting to define themselves in a way that can only look more beautiful on Aramis. His personal God of pleasure. Intelligent and talented in all his many ways. “Don’t cum too soon, big man.” Aramis smirks. Porthos lets out a booming laugh, making Aramis’ lighter and smaller frame jump a bit, stroking Porthos’ cock ever so slightly.

“Cocky, huh. We’ll see about that.” Porthos challenges.

Aramis lets his body rock naturally, tethering on Porthos thighs, letting his hips and waist do the leading as his brain does the memorizing. With Porthos beneath him like this, he feels an onslaught of confidence appear. As if he can accomplish anything and everything, as he contains this beast with the comfort and pleasure between his strong legs. It’s all so robust, masculine as Porthos grunts at every twist, hop, and quiver. They’re connecting in a way that was lost and forgotten for so long that as Aramis gains it all back, it’s impossible to contain this truth that their love speaks so loudly. They communicate in thrusts, moans, and slaps, as Porthos smacks his palm against Aramis’ thigh, urging for him to go faster.

Porthos grabs onto Aramis’ cock, giving it a few strong-fisted pumps before Aramis’ loses the bet, streaks of his white, creamy liquid land in a few spots on his chest, and some down the side of his hand.

Aramis almost couldn’t register the fact that Porthos was licking his cum off his long, muscular fingers while in the throes of their passion. Porthos was not too far behind him, his cock releasing warmth inside of Aramis, who sat on his cock until he was finished, clinching so this moment could last a while longer, milking every last drop of his living nectar.

Aramis collapses on Porthos and his cum, not focused on the discomfort but on the love that Aramis could practically hold in his hands.

Dante’s memory didn’t come immediately, his will was trying to anchor him through Porthos’ brown earth in his eyes. They were in bliss, the light of the lantern had went out, leaving the light from the moon to settle in around them.

“Did I accomplish what my King asked of his knight?” Porthos mutters sleepily. He yawns after a while, waiting for Aramis’ answer.

“You’ve broken the last wall. Thank you Porthos.”

“Well that’s what I’m ‘ere for. Breakin’ walls and what not.”

Aramis smiles half-what before he blushes when Porthos kisses the side of his head, reaffirming Aramis’ solid vision of this night of love.

If only Porthos could see it, that the light was starting to flicker in Aramis’ eyes once again. He brought back the fire in his soul, he just prays that Porthos wouldn’t become a Prometheus and that he’ll always be there to ignite the flame when it dies. Like Aramis would reciprocate gladly.

Aramis makes a move to get up when Porthos grabs hold of him and rolls Aramis to his side, so they both face each other on the pillow. “Where do ya think you’re going?”

“Home.” Aramis says the word tentatively, not sure how Porthos would react.

“ _This_ isyour home. With me.” Porthos states, pulling the covers over the both of them as the night grew colder.

Aramis puts his cold hand on top of Porthos’ heart, thinking of what the word truly meant. _Wherever Porthos is, that’s home._

“Love you.” Porthos starts their old nightly routine. And the domesticity of it all makes Aramis almost ready to bled happiness. Dante almost took this from him, made him forget how great life is on this side of the fence. He strengthened their bond, preventing either from jumping when the times grew worrisome. Like lovers were supposed to do.

Dante gave him eyes to see a new perspective, while God gave him a reality check. Like a deck of cards, a severe injustice was dealt to Aramis. But he could learn to live with it.

“Love you too.” Porthos huddles closer to Aramis, almost falling to sleep instantly when all the pieces fall back into place, and every remaining shard is slowly forgotten in the fog of dreams.

“G’night.”

“Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I am currently writing Chapter 4 of Wandering Eyes, I've just been so busy and it's been so long since I had the time to sit down and actually write something worth showing to people.


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